


one last prayer

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: when my eyes are clear [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD, Angst, Blood, Dyslexia, Enjolras's life kind of sucks, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Sickness, Vomiting, implied/reference child abuse, it really sucks, it's not physical but it's definitely there, this is really weird and I'm sorry if i missed any important tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras's life falls apart the year his two best friends leave for college. And they have no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one last prayer

The year that Combeferre and Courfeyrac leave for college is the worst of Enjolras’s life. In a perfect world, he’d be going there with them, but the world isn’t perfect and Enjolras is rejected from every single school he applies to. Granted, most of them are ones his father forced him to apply to, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s too stupid to be accepted to college. Courfeyrac had tried to find dyslexic colleges to apply to, but Enjolras’s father had vetoed them all. 

And so here he is, completely cut off from his father’s money and struggling to find enough jobs to pay for his shitty apartment. To keep up appearances, his father forbids Enjolras from telling anyone, but it is clear that the day everyone else leaves is the last day he’s welcome in the house. So Enjolras spends all summer trying to build up some sort of funds, drawing questions from his two best friends. He’s never not told Combeferre and Courfeyrac about his worst moments with his father (including many arguments that leave Enjolras crying and doubting why even tries if he’s this stupid and this dyslexic and this fucked up), but something stops him this time. They don’t need to be worrying about Enjolras… they have a new start, and Enjolras won’t infringe on their happiness.

Besides, Enjolras deserves this. He’s always been the fuckup, the son of two rich and successful people who can’t manage to fucking read or not come home with bruised knuckles. Some part of him has always known that this day would come, the day where his two best friends leave to become the amazing people they're destined to be and he’s left alone. But knowing is different from living it, and no one had told Enjolras how hard it is. 

He works three different jobs and averages three hours of sleep a night, and it’s not enough. There’s rent and heating and water and food and his father tells him he has to keep his phone in service so his friends don’t know. For someone who wants nothing to do with his son, he sure has a lot of regulations on Enjolras’s life. But Enjolras doesn’t question it; he doesn’t have time to. It’s hard to think, and when his manager of job number two makes him read through long reports Enjolras goes home and cries because it’s so damn hard when the letters won’t sit still. 

Probably the worst is the decision-making. _Do I turn on the heat or eat three meals a day this week? Take a hot shower or make that call to Combeferre?_ If Combeferre knew the choices that Enjolras makes, he’d be furious. Because Enjolras can’t afford to turn on the heat (despite it being nearly December and well below freezing) or eat more than two meals a day, not if he wants to have that long Skype call with his friends every week. Speaking of…

“Hey,” Combeferre says, from where he’s sitting next to Courfeyrac. His voice is soft, and Enjolras almost cries at how much he misses Combeferre. Despite knowing Enjolras’s education is very much over, he still sends books for the blond to read, and there’s always little notes inside, on things his professors say. 

“Hi,” Enjolras replies, his voice a little breathless. He’s sitting at the cleanest wall of his apartment, praying that Combeferre doesn’t notice how much bonier he’s begun to look lately. Right now, there’s probably some lovely dark circles to match, considering he’s just got off of working three consecutive twelve-hour shifts. 

“You look tired,” Courfeyrac says immediately. “We can call later if—“

“I’m fine,” Enjolras dismisses, noticing the look of worry on his friends’ faces. He even smiles a little with it, because even talking to his friends through the screen makes his life one hundred percent better. How pathetic is that? They’ve got new friends and new lives and are happy and probably stressed about studying, and he’s freezing his ass off by himself. “How was that protest last weekend?”

And, just like that, his friends are off and rambling about their lives. It’s amazing how easily Combeferre and Courfeyrac interrupt each other during the story, but when they both draw it to a close, they share a look. But that’s only after Enjolras asks a few questions.

“Were they—“ Enjolras tries to begin, only for Combeferre to give him a serious look.

“We kind of wanted to talk about you for a while.” Courfeyrac’s face falls when he sees the way the easy smile slides off his best friend’s face.

“Yeah, we don’t really know what you’ve been up to,” Combeferre adds. 

“You’ll hear about it at the annual Christmas dinner,” Enjolras assures his friends. It’s true; Christmas break is in almost a month, and so his father had visited his flat in order to remind him that he has to go. It’s tradition for the three of their families to celebrate Christmas together, and even though Enjolras technically isn’t considered part of his family, it needs to appear he is. And after seeing the state of his life, his father had demanded he show up a night before to be ‘made presentable’. Enjolras would love to say ‘fuck you’ to his father, because why should he pretend when it’s obvious he’s not welcome, but he doesn’t for two reasons. One, because it’s one of the only chances he’ll have to see his best friends, and two, because he honestly can’t afford to pass up a free meal at this point. 

“That’s not an answer, E,” Combeferre says, giving Enjolras his best parental look through the webcam.

“I’ve been working a lot. Reading, too,” Enjolras replies, careful with his choice of words. “Nothing exciting.” 

“My sisters say they haven’t seen you around since we left,” Courfeyrac inputs. “And they spend a lot of time at your house, because our mums love to gossip.” 

“Like I said, I’ve been working.” His voice is short, and he’s trying desperately to end this conversation now. 

“What about those classes? How are they?” Courfeyrac asks, and Enjolras feels his stomach turn to stone. This is only one of many lies he’s told his best friends lately, but it’s worth it when they smile because they’re genuinely happy that he’s learning. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, right?

“Still going well. I have an A in the multivariable calculus I’m in.” For all of his stupidity, Enjolras can actually learn math very easily. Is he taking the class, though? No, he’s leeching internet off of the library on Saturdays and stealing a book from there.

“That’s amazing.” And, dammit, it sounds like Courfeyrac actually means it. There’s a lot that’s unsaid in the silence that follows; “I miss you”s and “why did this happen”s and “things are going to change”s. The sadness is crushing, and Enjolras is barely keeping it together today as it is. He’s pretty sure his job as a mechanic (which makes up roughly 70% of his income) is going to end, because the owner of the shop’s wife is really sick and he can’t afford to pay as many people. 

“Where are you right now?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras never tells them that he’s moved out, but now it seems like it’s unavoidable. 

“I have an apartment,” Enjolras responds, trying to sound sheepish. He doesn’t specify any more than that. His friends only know about his job at the bookstore, and that’s not enough to sustain him, so they probably assume his parents are paying for most of it. 

“Where? We have a long weekend soon…” Combeferre says, but it’s at that moment that their other roommate appears with a puppy, and they quickly end the call. 

For a few moments, Enjolras just sits there, alone in the silence and the darkness. The apartment is always small, but it feels so much more suffocating with the absence of Courfeyrac’s smile and Combeferre’s gentle laugh. 

Enjolras doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

*****

Two weeks later, Enjolras is laid off at the mechanic shop. Neither the bookstore nor the grocery store he works at will give him more hours, and no one else will take him. Not with his bruised knuckles and black eye from the night where those stupid men wouldn’t _leave him alone_ and he just loses it. Combeferre’s look of disappointment when he sees somehow makes the crushing weight on Enjolras heavier; he hasn’t gotten into a fight in _months_ but then Enjolras fucks it up. That’s a common theme in his life lately.

He’s always jittery because he hasn’t taken his medication in months (that shit is so expensive), and there’s never a moment where he isn’t restless. It’s hard to focus, and it isn’t any easier now that he’s dangerously close to losing everything. He won’t be able to pay for the water or electricity or even the rent next month without that job, and his landlord knows it. He’s going to evict him. Food is becoming more and more of a luxury, and he only skypes his friends from the library, where the wifi is free and so is use of the computers. 

But in two weeks he sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac again. Enjolras has gotten really good at manipulating camera angles, and while he knows they notice the difference in his choppy and short hair (but his coworker at the bookstore cuts his hair for free), they probably can’t tell that Enjolras has worked new notches into his belts because it’s honestly way too easy to lose weight when three meals a day becomes two, or sometimes one. 

It’s been one a lot lately. 

None of that matters to Enjolras, though, because he’s going to see his _friends_. It’s definitely pathetic that the idea of seeing two people has been keeping him from panicking most days (the panic attacks he sometimes gets now are definitely because he’s not taking his meds), but it’s keeping Enjolras going. 

The night before he’s going to have to take the buses back to the good side of the city, his landlord evicts him. He doesn’t even have a day to clear out his stuff—it all fits in the large backpack Combeferre got him years ago—he’s to be gone before tomorrow morning. Enjolras throws the last few granola bars he has, his five shirts and pants, his razor and soap, into the backpack and bundles up in his huge winter parka before turning in his key, now unable to keep from crying. 

It’s been coming for a while, but when he’s shivering and trying to not think about how cold he is in some random alley, it feels so much more real. It’s awful. 

On Christmas Eve 2013, Enjolras is officially homeless. 

****

*

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac calls as he enters the large house, pulling his friend out of his reverie. He can’t stop thinking about where he’s going to go now, where there’s a place he can afford to live in, and his father has already torn him to pieces. Apparently it’s Enjolras’s fault he’s doing “a shit job of taking care of himself”, and somehow his father finds clothes with padding so it looks like Enjolras is larger than he is. Honestly, Enjolras doesn’t even bother explaining his situation, because he won’t listen.

But when he hears that voice…

Immediately, Enjolras is on his feet and in a few short strides Courfeyrac is hugging him so tightly that Enjolras is worried he’s going to break, but it feels so _good_ and Courfeyrac is warm and refuses to let Enjolras go. But eventually he does, when a voice clears its throat lightly behind him. Not even a second after Courfeyrac lets go, Combeferre is taking his place. His hugs aren’t as strong, but they’re gentle and Enjolras notices the way Combeferre pulls Enjolras’s head into his chest. 

“You look older,” is all Combeferre says once the hug is done, and they all move into the smaller of the two living rooms the house has, letting the adults have their own conversations. 

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Courfeyrac starts, once he’s sprawled across the couch, Combeferre on the armchair. Enjolras is sitting calmly on the floor; he forgets how soft his parents’ carpet is, and how warm houses with heating are. 

They talk pleasantly about classes and such for a while, until Enjolras’s fidgeting is too obvious. He’s been sitting for so long, and his brain is racing and though he wants to listen to Combeferre’s story it’s too damn hard to concentrate. 

“Have you been taking your meds?” Combeferre asks suddenly, but Enjolras doesn’t even hear him. “Enjolras.” Now Enjolras’s attention is back, and he flushes with shame when his friend repeats the question. 

“No. I forgot to refill the prescription before the pharmacies closed for the holidays,” Enjolras lies easily. He notices when Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a look, as if they don’t quite believe it, but luckily they don’t press him on that. No, instead they press Enjolras on everything else: the classes, his job, where his apartment is (Enjolras lies shamelessly there), and eventually even to if Enjolras is taking care of himself. During high school, Enjolras had a problem of staying up too late doing schoolwork because it’d take hours and hours to focus long enough to complete it, so naturally his best friends worry. 

It doesn’t even really bother Enjolras, though. Hearing Courfeyrac’s laugh in person is so much better than through a shitty camera, and he forgets how calm Combeferre just being there makes him feel. For the first time since they left, Enjolras is completely at ease, even when they’re harassing him to come visit them and Combeferre’s mother is forcing Enjolras to promise to stop by soon. 

For his father’s part, he’s mostly civil. Before the dinner, he does pull Enjolras aside and roughly remind him through a strong grip on his arm to not fuck this up, but he doesn’t pull his normal shit with his only son. It’s Christmas, and Enjolras is with his best friends, and there is food and warmth and they exchange gifts. Enjolras’s are so pitifully cheap compared to his friends’ for him, but there’s thought and he doesn’t think they mind. Or if they do, they don’t comment on it. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac leave with lingering, sad hugs and the promise that they’ll be checking in soon. Not even twenty minutes later, Enjolras is gone, too (after stealing from the pantry). And all of his worries crash back down around him, and he wants to run to Combeferre’s house and tell him and Courfeyrac everything, because they can make this go away (they always make everything in Enjolras’s pathetic existence better). But he doesn’t.

Enjolras remembers that he deserves this. 

 

****

*

Things don’t get better from there. There’s nowhere Enjolras can afford to live, so he’s sleeping in allys and under bridges, huddled in his winter coat and the blanket a man named Valjean gives him. Valjean finds him at least once every few weeks, and each time he and his daughter press something in his hand that he’s ashamed he can’t refuse—a hat, a blanket, warm food—and he’s so grateful for them. He’s lost service on his phone, so Enjolras hasn’t spoken to Combeferre and Courfeyrac since Christmas. When that happens it hurts more than when he loses his second job, and now no one will hire him.

Sometimes, he visits Mrs. Combeferre, to keep her son (and Courfeyrac) from leaving in a panic to try to find the unresponsive Enjolras. They can’t know what’s happening, because they’ll feel obligated to help and they don’t need that. If Enjolras was better, he could have been in a heated dorm right next to them at college. But he isn’t, and now there’s a chill that won’t leave his bones and a cough that just keeps getting worse. Still, he loves visiting one of his best friend’s mothers, because her house is warm and she’s very easy to lie to. (And out of respect, he always makes sure to find a shower the day he visits.) 

Their conversation is always incredibly subtle, lots of pleasantries that almost manage to hide the mutual tension. As time goes on, it’s harder to hide the coughs that are scraping against Enjolras’s lungs at make it hard to breathe, and the excuses and lies get worse when she asks why Enjolras’s phone isn’t working. One day, she downright confronts him, over coffee that Enjolras can barely hold in his shaking hands (he can’t even get warm in the hour or two he spends with her, or the long shifts he’s working). 

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre asked me to stop by the address you told him your apartment was,” she opens with, and Enjolras closes his eyes. “You’re not listed as a tenant, and when I asked around, no one had heard of you.” 

“Um,” Enjolras responds, unable to see a lie that will fix this. 

“Where do you live, Enjolras?” Mrs. Combeferre’s voice is quiet and calm, but Enjolras looks down. 

“I should go,” is all he says. But when he stands up, so does Mrs. Combeferre. 

“Why would you lie about where you live?” 

“It’s complicated. Thank you so much for the coffee, ma’m, but I should really go.” Enjolras is shrugging back into his coat and hat and gloves now, Mrs. Combeferre following him as he tries to leave. 

“Enjolras, wait!” she calls, even as he’s pulling on the boots that so blatantly have holes in them. “I know something’s wrong, because you’re pale and thin and so many other things, and I don’t know why you’re hiding it, but at least talk to your parents about it!” It’s then that Enjolras manages to get past her and out the front door. If she’s watching when he has to stop for a coughing fit, she doesn’t say anything or follow him. 

All Enjolras can think is how pissed off his father’s going to be when he finds out as he finds money in his pockets for the ride back. He’s almost in tears when he arrives at the bookstore, and the manager sends Enjolras home when he coughs so hard he doubles over. There’s a bit of blood on his hand, but Enjolras puts that down to how shredded his throat feels. 

So he spends the day avoiding the masses in the library, quietly trying to read _Harry Potter_ in the corner. It comforts him, because Enjolras thinks of the times he and Courfeyrac and Combeferre went to the midnight premieres together. Sure, Courfeyrac would say Enjolras is more of a demigod than a wizard (and Combeferre has forced him to read the _Percy Jackson_ series), but those premieres were so much fun. 

But Enjolras can’t really focus on the pages; the letters are jumping all over the place today, and he’s coughing too much, really. The librarians know him by name, so they don’t kick him out, but when it’s closing and he doesn’t check out the book (he doesn’t want anything to happen to it), there are knowing smiles and worried looks and it’s just too much. 

He forgets to go get the paycheck for the week, so there’s not money for dinner, and tonight Mr. Valjean and Cosette find him in between some dumpsters, trying to find shelter from the wind. 

“You shouldn’t come closer. I don’t want to get you sick,” Enjolras rasps out, surprised by how awful his own voice sounds. Of course, Mr. Valjean doesn’t listen, and crouches in front of Enjolras. That’s when Enjolras ducks his head into his elbow, trying to ignore how much his chest heaves with every hacking cough. 

“That doesn’t sound good, Adam,” the kind old man says, using Enjolras’s first name like he always does. “You should go to a hospital.” 

“I can’t. I don’t have the money,” Enjolras replies honestly, unable to meet Mr. Valjean’s gaze. He always feels ashamed when talking to the generous man, but over time he’s spilled the general outlines of his situation: the being kicked out, and then losing two of his three jobs. 

“There’s a free clinic a few blocks from here. Let us take you,” Cosette pipes in, but Enjolras just shakes his head. 

“I’ll be better soon,” Enjolras replies, trying to give a smile to the high-school girl. But it’s hard when he’s so cold and everything hurts and his chest feels like there’s a rope being tightened around it. 

“Do you have anyone you can call?” Mr. Valjean asks, reaching out to feel Enjolras’s forehead. For his part, Enjolras manages not to flinch when the cold back of the hand touches his skin. “You definitely have a fever.” 

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Enjolras gets out, turning his head as far as he can away from the man to cough again. Sighing, all Valjean does is give him a gift card to the café a street away. “Thank you.” And Enjolras really means it; there’s no way he can ever repay that man for what he’s done. 

“Here’s the address of the clinic,” Cosette says, handing him a sheet of paper before following her father out of the alley. Enjolras knows he won’t need it. 

This will pass, right?

****

*

Enjolras doesn’t know what day it is. It’s dark out and Enjolras can’t remember where he is, only that he can’t stop coughing and he’s cold. He thinks he’s missed work, that it’s been like this for a while, but he’s trying to stumble there anyway. The streets are empty, but there’s the occasional painful lights of a car.

He wonders where his best friends are. They should be here, right? Enjolras remembers calling them, to talk about his apartment, but that feels like months ago. Nothing is making sense, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep walking. Even the knit hat and blanket aren’t keeping him warm anymore, and he’s been avoiding Mr. Valjean anyway. If he goes to a doctor he doesn’t have insurance or any identification and he won’t be treated. Vaguely, Enjolras remembers vomiting and seeing something red, but he doesn’t quite remember what that means. 

When bright lights stop near him, Enjolras assumes it’s the cops. He’s been brought in a few times, but those are mostly blessings rather than punishments. The light hurts his eyes and that’s when Enjolras’s knees give out. He doesn’t even have time to realize how cold the snow around him is before everything is blessedly black. 

 

****

*

Combeferre’s heart is pounding with fear, as Courfeyrac drives the car their friend loans them towards their hometown. They’re speeding unashamedly, but that’s the least of their worries; Combeferre just keeps replaying the phone conversation he’d had with his mother.

_”Mom, it’s two am.” Combeferre’s voice is tired when he answers the phone. He’s only been asleep for an hour, and he just wants to close his eyes again._

_“You’ve got to come home,” is all she says at first. Immediately, Combeferre is wide awake, fear pumping through him at the scared tone of her voice. “It’s Enjolras.”_

_“You found him? Mom, what happened?” After Enjolras’s phone is disabled, after he stops visiting Mrs. Combeferre, he hasn’t been heard from or seen. Of course, his parents assure everyone that he’s fine, that there’s nothing wrong, but there so obviously is. Which means it is partly his parents’ faults, if they’re trying to cover it up._

_“We were driving home from the play, and we saw someone stumbling along the street. We stopped the car right before the person collapsed, and when Dad ran to help him he saw that it was Enjolras. He’s… he’s not doing well, Combeferre. He woke up a few minutes after, and we were going to drive him to the hospital, but he’s refusing. And when he gets too worked up he coughs so much more and he’s coughed up blood. He’s really out of it, and we would just take him but he’s so scared whenever we bring it up but and won’t say anything more than that.”_

_“I’ll talk to him. I’m taking Courfeyrac and leaving in five minutes. We’ll be there in less than two hours.”_

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Courfeyrac asks in the silence. They’re almost there, but it’s doing nothing to ease the anxiety and fear when they’re thinking about Enjolras and what’s happening. 

“If he’s coughing up blood, it’s not a good sign,” is all Combeferre says. “But that’s probably not the biggest problem.” 

“Why not?” Courfeyrac asks, his eyes growing wider with fear. 

“Enjolras drops off the face of the fucking planet after my mom finds out he’s not living at the apartment he said he was, and his parents never talk about him. He’s dangerously ill and refusing to go to the doctor. His phone being disconnected wasn’t because he didn’t want to talk to us.” 

“How long have you known?” Courfeyrac asks, swallowing hard. 

“I didn’t. I wondered, but now it’s obvious.” Combeferre’s voice is quiet, solemn. 

“Why wouldn’t he go to anyone for help? Why not go to his parents? How did he even get into that situation?” There’s a silence after Courfeyrac’s words. 

“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out,” Combeferre’s says, his voice shaking almost as much as his hands. They don’t talk as Combeferre pulls off of the highway, don’t say a word until they pull into his parents’ driveway. Even Combeferre’s father doesn’t say a word as the two rush into the guest room, where Enjolras is sitting up in bed, currently coughing while Mrs. Combeferre watches, water glass at the ready. When she sees her son, though, she just hugs him as she stands up. 

“Please get him to talk,” she whispers, before exiting. Courfeyrac merely hands Enjolras the water glass when he’s done coughing, trying to ignore how his teeth are stained red. As the two sit down on the bed on either side of their best friend, they notice just how awful Enjolras looks. He’s even thinner than normal, his skin pale and cold and there’s deep, dark circles under his eyes. Somehow, Enjolras is shivering despite the blankets and heat being up high, and his short, dirty hair is plastered to his forehead in a cold sweat. 

“Hey, E,” Courfeyrac says softly, and Enjolras looks down. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, hands twisting nervously. The normally clear grey eyes are cloudy and unfocused, and he ducks his head into his elbow to cough again. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Combeferre says, his voice deliberately calm. “This isn’t your fault.” 

“You’re wrong.” Enjolras eyes are only half open, and he’s violently shivering, but his voice is determined despite the fact it’s nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “None of it would have happened if I hadn’t fucked up.” 

“How’d you fuck up?” Courfeyrac asks gently, moving to wrap his arms around his friend. Initially, Enjolras flinches, but Courfeyrac is warm and comfortable. 

“Couldn’t get into college,” Enjolras mumbles, before trying turn away from his friend to cough. Courfeyrac is having none of it, and holds Enjolras tighter. The coughs go into Courfeyrac’s shirt, and Courfeyrac can _feel_ Enjolras’s ribcage moving with the effort. 

“What?” Combeferre’s voice is quiet, and he wants to ask more, but the occasional coughing turns into a fit and Enjolras is spitting up blood into his hands. It’s hard for him to stay upright, so Courfeyrac moves to support his friend from the back. 

“You need to let us help you, Enjolras. You need to get to a hospital,” Courfeyrac says, but Enjolras starts shaking harder at the thought.

“I told you already, sir. I can’t pay,” he says, and Combeferre mumbles a swear.

“Do you know who we are, Enjolras?” 

“I think you’re Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but you’re not here. You’re at college. So you’re probably Mr. Valjean.” Enjolras says this as though it’s the most logical explanation in the world.

“Where are you?” Courfeyrac asks. “Who’s Mr. Valjean?”

“It’s not as cold, so that means I can afford that one motel tonight. But it’s okay when I can’t, because Mr. Valjean gave me a hat and gloves and a warm blanket.” Whoever Mr. Valjean is, Combeferre is extremely grateful he exists. 

“But why won’t you let us take you to a hospital? You’re sick, and you know it,” Combeferre presses, and Enjolras looks at him like he’s not even there. 

“I can’t walk there. And I have to work tomorrow; I don’t think I’ve been going to work and I can’t miss anymore,” Enjolras says. 

“Enjolras, you’re not where you think you are. You’re in Combeferre’s parent’s house, and I promise you we can get you there,” Courfeyrac tells his friend, his voice low as he grabs Enjolras’s cold hands. 

“You’re not real,” is all Enjolras says, pulling away. 

“I can assure you—“

“No, you’re not, or it means I fucked up again,” Enjolras interrupts. After a few seconds, and more blinks, it seems that he actually _sees_ his friends. “No. No no no no no.” The next time Enjolras looks up, it’s with a sudden clarity.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, his voice hoarse as he watches his friend’s body shake. “What happened?” 

“I fucked up, ‘Ferre. I couldn’t get into college and my father was so angry and he kicked me out when you left. I knew he would, so that’s why I was working this summer, but it wasn’t enough. I had three jobs and a shit apartment for a while but then someone’s wife got sick and I got fired. My landlord kicked me out on Christmas Eve and I tried to find another job or another apartment and I couldn’t. And I can’t go to a hospital because then my father will know and he’ll be pissed off like he was at Christmas when he had to make me presentable so it looked like he didn’t hate me and I just keep fucking up. I didn’t want you two to worry because that’s not what you’re supposed to be doing—you’re supposed to be happy—but then I couldn’t afford the phone and then it got cold and I got sick and—“ but Enjolras cuts off his breathless rant by grabbing the bucket next to the bed and vomiting. 

Instantly, Courfeyrac is holding Enjolras’s hair back and trying not to notice that the vomit is mostly blood and Combeferre is rubbing circles into Enjolras’s back. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long (Combeferre doesn’t think Enjolras has much of anything, let alone energy, left in him), and Combeferre lightly cups his friend’s thin face in his hands. 

“You need help, Enjolras. Let us help you,” is all that he says, but then Enjolras is crying and Combeferre can see the blood in his friend’s mouth as he completely gives up. 

“I’m sorry,” is all Enjolras says, over and over as he lets Combeferre hug him tightly. When he’s completely spent, he mumbles something that sounds like “I can’t believe you’re here”, that breaks something inside of Combeferre. 

“We’re going to take you to a hospital now, okay?” Combeferre says, and is relieved when Enjolras merely nods against his shoulder. “I swear we’re here. We’re not going to go anywhere.” The promise rolls off of Combeferre’s tongue, and it’s only then that Combeferre registers that Courfeyrac is gone, probably talking to Combeferre’s parents. There’s still a lot to be explained, but now they know the basis. And, lord, Combeferre has never hated Enjolras’s father more. 

Enjolras is incredibly light in Combeferre’s arms when he lifts his friend from the bed, completely certain Enjolras won’t be able to walk even to the car, and he lets his friend rest his head against Combeferre’s neck. It’s so painful and terrifying, seeing Enjolras like this, and knowing that it could have been stopped so much sooner. Combeferre should have known; he knows when Enjolras is hiding things from him, and yet he completely misses the fact that his friend spent the past few months scared and alone and even fucking homeless. It hurts more that Enjolras deliberately hides the fact that he’s falling apart because he wants Combeferre and Courfeyrac to be happy. 

For Enjolras loving his friends so fiercely, he doesn’t understand how fiercely they love him back. Already, Courfeyrac is on the phone with his parents and trying to figure out how they’re going to make this better, because it’s never going to get anywhere near this bad again. 

Right now, with Enjolras’s mop of blonde curls in Combeferre’s lap as he slips in and out of consciousness, Combeferre knows that he has no idea what Enjolras has been through the past few months. 

But Enjolras smiles a little when Combeferre intertwines their hands, and it’s enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Might have wrote this while half asleep and completely and utterly sick. So any grammar/inconsistances can be blamed on that. Would love to hear your thoughts. :)


End file.
